


if we couldn't carry our dead inside us, we would be empty

by Princex_N



Category: Takin' Over the Asylum
Genre: Ableism, Angst, Anxiety, Crying, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Families of Choice, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health Issues, Mother-Son Relationship, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-10-04 04:40:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20465162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princex_N/pseuds/Princex_N
Summary: Refusing to take care of himself takes its toll on Campbell, and help comes from a surprising source.





	if we couldn't carry our dead inside us, we would be empty

**Author's Note:**

> title from [this A Softer World comic](http://www.asofterworld.com/index.php?id=981)

Campbell wakes up already on his feet and when he properly comes to it's because he's hunched over the toilet in one of the bathrooms, puking his guts up.

He's still half-asleep, but already knows what's happening. It's his own fault, he knows. Things have been bad lately, swooping downwards instead of rocketing him sky high, and he hasn't been eating. Has barely even been getting out of bed unless they make him. He'd known last night that he was going to have to get up and eat _something_ soon, but in a masochistic streak of stubbornness he'd refused to. 

He's paying for it now.

Pressing his forehead against the seat of the toilet as he gropes to flush it is probably gross, but he's tired and he feels like shit, so whatever. Rosalie was probably in here scrubbing yesterday anyway, so that makes it at least a little more okay (although now she's going to have to clean it all again). She's only been here a couple of weeks, but the place has never been cleaner.

Speak of the devil, Campbell hears someone opening the door behind him, and when he turns Rosalie is there, standing shock still in the doorway. 

"Rosalie?" Campbell asks, his voice sandpaper rough in his raw throat, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. "What're you doing in here?" 

He has no idea what time it is, and with the way he's been sleeping lately it could be _any_ time between the middle of the night and the middle of the afternoon. Rosalie is there anyway, staring at him in a way that makes Campbell wonder if she's really looking at _him_, with her gloves and her mask and her Dettol in her hands. Campbell might feel like shit, but he still knows that she shouldn't be here. She shouldn't _want_ to be. 

"I'm sick," he tells her. Even if it's just because his stomach has always chosen to rebel when empty, it's not like the whole process is _sanitary_. Even if he's not contagious, there's still a pretty clear problem. "There are germs. I'm okay. You should go." 

He's tired. Part of him wants to curl up in bed and just go back to sleep, but he knows that he can't do it unless he wants to be racing back in here in a couple of ours. Depending on what time it is, there might be someone around that he can beg some food from, which is what he_ should_ do. But that takes energy, and Campbell has been ironically low on that these past few days. He's content to just stay here until someone else finds him and forces the help on him. 

It shouldn't be Rosalie though. The germs she's always afraid of are theoretical, but these are real. He's not _sick_, but he doesn't want her to panic anyway. He's too exhausted to be able to stop the nurses if they try to get her. Well, he can never do much to _stop_ him, but usually he can distract them while she tries to calm down. He wouldn't be a very good distraction right now. 

Even if he wasn't being sick she'd probably not want to be around him, he realizes, since he's still crumpled and half-sprawled against the toilet (she cleans them constantly because they make her nervous. She can talk for nearly hours about the kinds of germs bathrooms hold, and it's gross, but Campbell listens because she listens to him when he can't make himself shut up). He'd move to make her happy, only he isn't sure if he can. 

He opens his mouth to try and ask if maybe_ she _could get a nurse to bring him some water and something to eat, but his mouth has barely moved to shape the words before its filling with saliva. Even propped up by it as he is, he still feels like he barely manages to turn his head into the toilet in time. 

"I'm sorry," he chokes out around mouthfuls of sick, eyes squeezed shut pathetically. She must be horrified right now. The sight of something spilled on the floor sometimes makes her gag and breathe hard and he's sitting here being sick right in front of her. She's almost definitely going to have a panic attack and it's going to be all his fault. "'m sorry." 

He finally hears her move and is equal parts relieved and bereft for it. He's always hated being sick, even when it was his own fault in the first place. Used to drive his mum up the wall with how clingy he got. But at least Rosalie is leaving now and won't be upset. Or, well, not _as_ upset, probably. 

He startles when he feels a hand press against his forehead hesitantly, but nothing prepares him for the shock of openings his eyes to see that it's Rosalie. 

"Germs," he rasps. He's not sure why he keeps reminding her as if it isn't obvious, but it feels important. She started talking to him nearly a week ago now and she still won't get within a few inches of him when he's perfectly healthy, but she's touching him now? Maybe he's just dreaming. 

"You're sick," she says, and there _is_ a line of panic on the edge of her voice, but it's tempered with the stubborn steel she gets sometimes too. "I can help." 

That's fair, he thinks. If she's obsessed with getting rid of germs then she probably is the one he'd want at his side for a trial like this.

Her gloves aren't even on, he thinks half-deliriously, but he doesn't say so. He doesn't think he's seen her without them before, but he also doesn't want her to stop carding her fingers through his hair, pulling it back away from his sweaty face and out of his eyes. It feels nice.

It's been a while since Campbell has seen his mom. 

"I'm not _sick_," he tells her. "I haven't been eating. This has always happened when I don't." 

"You're sure?" she asks, and he nods. 

He tries to ask if _she's_ sure, but it gets lost as he gets sick again. Hardly anything comes up this time, but Campbell still dry heaves with it hard enough to hurt. Rosalie's fingers keep his hair out of his face, and her other hand rubs soothing circles on his back as he retches, murmuring quiet reassurances into his ear.

Campbell's not sure if it's just the pain or the misery or if it's because of her, but either way he bursts into tears and can't even find it in himself to be embarrassed about it. 

(Sometimes Campbell thinks he's a bit beyond embarrassment by this point. Embarrassment is for people who haven't made so many dubious decisions while rendered untouchable by mania, ones who haven't gone weeks without showering when the depression gets so bad you can't move because of it, people who haven't had nurses drag you down the hall while everyone else watches because you're half out of your mind with relentless energy that won't let you rest. What's more embarrassing than being crazy? What's more powerful than embracing it?) 

"You'll be alright, son," Rosalie tells him, and Campbell nearly breaks into a fresh wave of tears. 

His head is pounding and his eyes ache with it. His thoughts are fragmenting apart, not like mania and not like depression; too much of both and not enough of either. Slowfast and foggy.

He really let it get bad this time. 

"Shouldn't have let it get this bad," he admits dizzily. The only clear thought in his head right now.

(It'd be so easy to chase it down the rabbit hole. He's pathetic. He's rotten and broken and too weak to even take care of himself properly. He should let the weakness overwhelm him, it's what he deserves, to die here on the floor of this crappy hospital bathroom because he's too stupid to make sure he survives. It's not like his parents want him anyway. They'd be glad to be rid of him. No more loonies in the family. They'd come up with some pleasant lie about what killed him so that they wouldn't have to admit that he's been in a mental hospital this whole time, and then they'd move on without him and wouldn't glance back. A clean ending. He's too tired to follow the thoughts down that spiral. He's grateful for it.) 

"Probably not," Rosalie agrees, and she sounds _almost_ calm as she does so. "Do you think you can stand?" 

Campbell is pretty sure that if he stood up he'd pass out for real. That's happened to him before, before he'd been brought here. He hadn't gotten out of bed to eat or drink for ages and when he'd finally tried to get up he'd collapsed before he could even get out of his room. He'd woken up when his mom had started banging on his door and yelling at him to quit being lazy. He never told her what happened. She wouldn't have wanted to hear it anyway. 

He doesn't know if he answers Rosalie properly or if he just sobs, but either way she doesn't push it. 

"Would you rather I left to get a nurse to help instead?" she asks, and something sparks panic in Campbell's chest. 

"No," he says, clear and certain. One of his hands shoots out to fumble for her to keep her from leaving before he remembers that she doesn't like to be touched and tries to pull back just as quickly. She catches his hand and holds it, and Campbell doesn't even mind that she's holding it tight enough to hurt. 

"Alright then," she says. "I'm going to shout for someone then." 

That doesn't sound good either, with his head throbbing as it is, but she seems to have thought of that. Her hands settle gently around his ears, and she presses down when he nods unsteadily, muffling the sound of her shout for Isabel into something tolerable. 

"He says he's sick because he hasn't eaten," Rosalie says as the door opens, and Campbell doesn't bother opening his eyes when he hears the footsteps drawing closer. 

"That happens," Isabel agrees, her tone is light but even like this Campbell can hear the threads of hesitation in it. "Rosalie, are you sure you want to stay here? I can take it from here." 

Rosalie's hands tighten their grip on him, and Campbell keeps his mouth shut. He doesn't want her to leave either. "He's not contagious," Rosalie says. "But if he's this sick already then he might catch something. I can help stop it from getting worse." 

Campbell wonders what's worse from here. He's already feeling like shite warmed over. 

"Well, I can't let you eat in here," Isabel says, backing off. "That'd be a surefire way to make sure you caught something nasty. Come on, up you get." 

Campbell moans brokenly when they heave him to his feet, but he does his best to keep his legs under him. He's bigger than both of them, and he doesn't want to knock one of them over if he faints or falls over. He's still glad that they didn't go get one of the nursing assistants to help them. Campbell never lets it show but they make him nervous. (He's the tallest one in this ward and sometimes he's sure that it makes them grab him twice as hard. It's funny to think of him making _them_ nervous enough to put them on their guard, as if they don't hold all the power and more in their hands.) 

(Sometimes Campbell feels like he can't shake the anxiety. He's never really been paranoid but something about this place instills it like water pouring into a bucket until it overflows. It's so easy for everything to be deconstructed here, for things to be obfuscated into new truths. Campbell has always hopped and jumped when he'd gotten excited but every time his feet think of leaving the ground here there are bulky adults in his space to hold him back down. They tell him they were worried he might hurt himself - or someone else - and it doesn't matter if they're lying or not because who would believe Campbell over them? The nurses and the doctors can say whatever they want, turn every innocent excitement into a threat and every short burst of irritation into a complete breakdown. Days turn to weeks turn to months. When you're crazy people can say _anything_ about you, and you can't argue because no one will believe you because you're crazy. Campbell doesn't hop when he's happy anymore, it makes him too nervous.) 

They don't try to take him all the way to the kitchen, which Campbell is grateful for. He's already steadier on his feet, but there's an uncomfortable feeling in his chest and head that doesn't indicate anything good if he tries to keep walking around. They let him sit in one of the chairs in the common area instead, and Isabel goes off to find something to bring him, leaving Rosalie and him alone. 

"Are you okay?" he asks her, running his tongue over his teeth and grimacing at the taste. 

"You ought to take better care of yourself," Rosalie says instead of answering, which is fair. 

"It's too much work sometimes," he says instead of agreeing. It's not really like he does it on _purpose_, more like he doesn't always purposefully try to avoid it. He looks down at his hands so that he doesn't have to see the look on her face when he says it (he doesn't know what would be worse; seeing her disappointment or seeing that she doesn't actually care at all). 

Rosalie probably can't understand what he's trying to communicate. Rosalie's thing is that she cares too much about everything; there's nothing that's too much for her to do because she doesn't have a choice but to do it all because she has to make sure everything is done right. She's the only want who cares to do it right, she says. 

Instead of trying to sympathize, she says, "You'll worry your mother worse with an attitude like that," and the statement is so absurd that Campbell bursts into laughter that tugs at his sore muscles in the worst way, but not bad enough to make him stop. 

(Campbell's mother has come to see him exactly once. He had been talking at Fergus in the hallway, bouncing on his heels with his arms and hands flying through the air as he spoke rapid fire in fragmented sentences about something that had thrilled him at the time but that he can't remember now. He'd only noticed her when she'd turned to leave, crying that she couldn't handle being there, and Campbell had heard and turned to see if it was actually her just in time to see the bitter disappointed look on his father's face as they both left. His dad has come back a couple of times since then, and always talks about how wrecked Campbell's mother is, but she never comes. Campbell is pretty sure he's nothing but a crazy disappointment to her now, and he doesn't believe that her sadness had been worry for him for a single second.) 

"My mother doesn't care much for me anymore," he tells Rosalie when the laughter has stopped. He wrings his fingers until the bones ache. It doesn't feel like enough. (He should have been better). 

Rosalie is silent for a long time, long enough for Isabel to come back with a plastic bottle of water and some crackers. Campbell tries not to look at either woman as he takes them, opening the packages with shaking hands and ignoring the way his throat spasms as he takes a drink. Isabel asks if they're both alright, and Rosalie's voice is steelier than Campbell has ever heard it when she asks if Isabel could find some fruit too.

Campbell is trying not to gag over one of the crackers when Rosalie circles the chair he's in to sit in front of him, forcing him to look at her again. Her eyes are angry embers in her face as he meets them. 

"Then don't mind about her," she says firmly. "_I'll _worry about you, then." 

He waits for her to turn it into a joke, but she doesn't. She looks up at him with iron determination and doesn't waver even when he starts to cry all over again, only digs through her purse for one of her napkins to help him dry his face off. 

Isabel smiles at them when she comes back with an apple in her hand, and rechecks that Rosalie is okay before going to do the rest of her round. Campbell waits patiently as Rosalie immediately takes the apple to go clean it properly, trying to breathe and find his footing again. When she comes back, he stays where he is, carefully making his way through the food and water as Rosalie talks to him about a list she's making on what she needs to clean now that he's been sick in the bathroom, but it doesn't sound like a scolding when she does it. She almost sounds excited. ("They can't tell me not to clean it if there's actually a reason to make sure it's clean!") 

Campbell sits and listens, and when they're both done he'll feel better than he has in weeks and knows that it wasn't just the food that did it.

(Tomorrow, Rosalie will come check on him with hands that are raw-red and flaking, and she won't touch him like she had the night before, but Campbell won't mind. She'll listen to him chatter away about one thing and another as he trails after her while she cleans this and that, and he won't offer to help because he knows that he wouldn't be able to do it in a way that would satisfy her anxiety, and she won't tell him to leave her alone even when Campbell can feel himself getting annoying, and Campbell will be happy for it. It'll be _weeks_ before she touches him again, a hesitant handshake in the radio broadcast room, but Campbell doesn't mind the wait at all.) 

**Author's Note:**

> can't stop won't stop
> 
> [my tumblr](http://www.princex-n.tumblr.com)


End file.
